“Not entirely. There were times when I found Hatty trying, when she depressed me, and made me impatient. Indeed, Chrissy dear, we must remember that we are human, and not angels. None of us are free from blame; we have all failed in our turn. You have never been morbid before; try to forget the little everyday frictions, for which Hatty was to blame as well as you, and only remember how good you were to her in her illness—what a comfort to me as well as to her. ‘Chrissy has been such a darling,’ Hatty said to me one day.”
After all, Christine was quite willing to be comforted, and presently she dried her eyes.
“You must let me talk to you sometimes, Bessie,” she said; “it will do me good, because you have such a nice clear way of putting things, and you never mind trouble. I know I can’t take Hatty’s place, but if you will let me do things for you sometimes, and feel that I am a help, for we are sisters as much as you and Hatty were, and I want to get nearer to you somehow.”
“And so you shall, dear,” replied Bessie, touched by this humility. “You must not think that I do not love you because Hatty was so much to me. There is nothing I would not do for you, Chrissy—oh, you may be sure of that;” and Bessie kissed her affectionately.
This conversation made Christine happier, for she was a good-hearted girl, and her repentance was very real, and it strengthened Bessie in her resolve to do her best for them all. Sorrow is a great test of character; it makes the selfish more selfish, and hardens the proud, but Bessie grew softer under its influence. After all, Edna was right in saying that it was harder to suffer through one’s own fault. An affliction that comes straight from God’s hand (though, in one sense, all trouble is permitted by His providence) wounds, and yet heals at the same time, and Bessie was to learn this by degrees; and, after all, her cross was wreathed with the soft flowers of hope.
One morning early in October Bessie had a most unexpected pleasure. She had just returned from a long walk, and was on her way to the morning-room in search of her mother, when Christine opened the drawing-room door and beckoned to her with a very excited face.
“Do come in, Betty,” she said, in a loud whisper that must have been distinctly audible inside the room. “What a time you have been! and there is a friend of yours waiting for you.”
Bessie quickened her steps, feeling somewhat mystified by Christine’s manner, and the next moment she was face to face with Edna. Bessie turned very pale and could hardly speak at first for surprise and emotion; but Edna took her in her arms and kissed her.
“My dear Bessie,” she said softly; and then she laughed a little nervously, and it was not the old musical laugh at all—“are you very surprised to see me? Oh, it was a bright idea of mine. I have been visiting those same friends (I had returned from them that day, you know, when we were snowed up together). Well, when I saw Sheen Valley, all of a sudden the thought popped into my head that I would stop at Cliffe, and take a later train; so I telegraphed to mamma, who is in London, and now I have a whole hour to spend with you. Is not that nice?”
“Very nice indeed. I am so glad to see you, Edna; but you are looking delicate; you have lost your color.”